Dismantling The Patriarchy
by Cantique
Summary: [Genderflipped cast] Michelle De Santa, Francis Clinton and Taylor Phillips. Mother, young blood, feminist meth queen. When past and present collide, things get explosive. MATRIARCHY. (I'm really just playing around with this, I don't even know anymore. Pffft.)
1. Michelle

Michelle De Santa's age was catching up with her.

She squinted at herself in the mirror, her eyes focusing on the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, the laugh lines around her mouth that seemed to have become deeper over the last few years. She needed another session with her surgeon. Another consultation. There had to be _something_ she could do, surely.

"_Your age is catching up with you, Michelle,"_ her therapist had warned her. _"You really need to start making time for therapy."_ The words rattled around in her brain, bouncing off the walls of her skull. She wasn't getting old. She wasn't _letting_ herself get old.

She pulled back, turning to the side and examining her physical shape. She'd gone a long time looking nothing like she'd had two kids, but ever since the move to Los Santos, she'd put on a little bit of weight. Not too much, she kept telling herself a little meat on the bone was fine - but it was noticeable. Her breasts looked fantastic, but she had Dr Kormach to thank for those, god knows where they'd be right now if she hadn't had surgical intervention. Her lips had thinned out a little, but again, she'd had those taken care of when she started noticing grey hairs amongst her brown locks. A bit of dye and some plumping never hurt anyone.

"Moooom!" A voice shouted from the hall, her son's voice making her jolt out of her self-imposed session of critique. "Jenny said I have a…" Tyler's voice trailed off for a second. "Jenny called me an _asshole!_"

Michelle gave a sigh, rolling her eyes, not responding to her son's complaints. She needed a nap. Or just some quiet. Hell, she needed a time machine and some condoms. She gently opened her door a crack, peeking out to make sure neither of her precious angels were in the hall, before softly and silently sneaking out and down the stairs. Sneaking past her own children. This is what her life had come to. Jesus christ.

Not in the mood for any conversation - or, more realistically, any kind of screaming match - she made a beeline for the garage. Jenny had, without asking her permission or advice, had gone ahead and bought a new car. Seeing as Michelle's name was the one on the credit card she'd used, she was more entitled to take a nap in it, far away from the screaming of her offspring.

"_Amazing,_ Mr De Santa!" She could hear her husband's tennis coach's crisp, valley girl accent from the bottoms of the stairs - and while Michelle tried her damned best to give her husband the benefit of the doubt, she couldn't _stand_ his coach. Adam, despite their passionate beginnings, hadn't exactly always been the most loyal of husbands, although Michelle hadn't been the most loyal of wives either, in all honesty. Michelle had seen the kind of woman he preferred to her. Fit. Pretty. Red hair. _Young._ But, she couldn't really deny her husband of his private tennis lessons, either. _"I'm an athlete, Michelle,"_ he'd argue. _"Why would you have married an athlete if you didn't want me to keep doing what I love? I need to do __**something.**__"_ If she'd known he was going to be so high-maintenance when she'd met him, she might have thought twice about marrying the guy.

But, she'd married the up-and-coming footballer in their youth and now she was stuck with him, especially after they went into witness protection, after which it became just as much about how _he_ was stuck with _her_ now. Sure, Michelle and Adam loved each other, that's why she did what she did to get them where they were - but Adam had to give up his - admittedly failing - career, too. That was probably where it started going sour. Adam finding her in bed with Tyler's high school football coach was where it went from sour to rotten, though - that was definitely her own fault.

Trying her best to block the sound of her husband's foxy little coach guiding him through his volley, Michelle snuck into the garage and opened the door of Jenny's new car. Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. Sweet, naive, awkward Jenny. This car was worth _way_ less than what she was paying. Michelle had seen the paperwork - the paperwork that her socially awkward daughter had neglected to look over. Of course, Michelle didn't entirely blame her. Her parents had obviously made a huge mistake somewhere that resulted in her sealing herself up in her room with videogames all day, so uncomfortable around new people that some sleazy car salesman could bully her into signing a document without even reading it first. Michelle laid her head down, thinking about her daughter, wondering where she went wrong. You're not supposed to have expectations of your children, she knew that, but she'd hoped Jenny would… be different. Friendlier. Happier.

Michelle had been a cheerleader in highschool, a pageant queen, singer, dancer, actress, you name it. She was meant to end up with either a spot on the red carpet or a rich husband on her arm. Of course, that required opportunities she didn't exactly get. Sure, she was pretty and charming, but she didn't have the money needed to climb the pageant circuit past state level _or_ the money to become a full time cheerleader. It got to a point where she had two options - porn or crime. Crime seemed to have more opportunities down the track and less old man dick involved.

So, when she held Jenny in her arms, she wanted her daughter to have what she didn't, the opportunities her parents couldn't provide her. Michelle _could_ give her any opportunities she could have possibly wanted - but Jenny didn't seem to want any. Instead, Jenny dyed her hair some fucking stupid color - Michelle wasn't sure what it was this week, but last time she'd seen her it had been blue - put metal in her face, smoked weed alone and played video games _all. Day._ And that's not to say Michelle hadn't _tried,_ she had. She'd tried taking her out, taking her to the beach, enrolling her in dance classes. But Jenny would just shy away, avoiding eye contact, pretending to text on her phone. It was almost like Jenny didn't _want_ to make new friends. Or get a job. Or achieve anything worthwhile.

Jenny's brother, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. Tyler was beyond Michelle's control. All he wanted to do, apparently, was lift weights, drink, take party drugs and fuck random girls. Despite his mother's insistence he go to college or get a real job, Tyler wouldn't have a bar of it. Oh no. He had a 'fitness program' to launch, and nightclubs to promote. Or some shit. Michelle couldn't fucking keep up anymore. At least she could get a word in with Jenny, or try to _pretend_ she understood her a little. Tyler? Talking to Tyler was like talking to someone in a completely different language. He wasn't the little boy she used to watch eat grubs he found under their trailer anymore, dirt smeared all over his chubby little cheeks anymore. Oh no.

Then again, she wasn't a 23-year-old anymore, either. She used to have command over herself, command over her life. A hot, fit-as-hell husband who adored her, two gorgeous young children who thought the world of their parents instead of seeing them as an inconvenience, friends who'd die for her - and who she'd die for, too. She used to rob banks, shoot people, do whatever she wanted to without remorse, always outsmarting the police, keeping one step ahead. Empowered was the word. That's was she was. Empowered.

And now she was trying to nap in the back seat of her daughter's car, hiding from her own family.

She threw a blanket over herself, closing her eyes, drifting off - but only lightly, trying to send her mind to that 'happy place within' her therapist kept talking about. The best she could come up with was an island in the middle of nowhere with limitless alcohol and an array of hot, shirtless, ripped-as-hell, 20-something-year-old guys. For a while, she remained there, her mind eventually wandering in it's half-sleep to the old days. To life before Los Santos.

And then, the car moved, and her eyes opened.

At first, Michelle opened her mouth to protest, to tell Jenny to let her out before she went somewhere. But when her eyes settled on the women in the driver's seat who obviously hadn't noticed that there was a _person_ under that blanket in the back seat, she felt her blood boil. It wasn't Jenny. It wasn't anyone she even _knew._

She might have lost control of her life, but as Michelle reached into the waistband of her pants and settled her hand on the handle of her pistol, she decided that she was going to keep control of her garage. At the very least.


	2. Francis

Francis was so done with Simone's shit.

This employee of the month bullshit she'd pulled? Francis wasn't stupid, Simone was trying to make Francis and Laverne compete with each other so they'd do more work for less reward. Sure, that shit might fly with Laverne, but Francis was above that - she saw right through it.

Although, for someone who'd 'seen through it,' Francis hadn't had much of a problem with breaking into some white family's house when Simone asked her to. She wasn't exactly an entirely legitimate businesswoman yet, but she was pretty sure that 'repossessions' didn't usually involve sneaking in through someone's bathroom window.

She held her back to the wall, waiting for someone - some white boy - to storm past her in anger, completely missing her presence. Why the hell did everything have to be so difficult? When Francis got out of prison she promised herself that was the end of it. No more gang-banging, no more gang signs, no more shooting up anything wearing purple and selling dope. She was going to go legitimate.

Yet, here she was, sneaking through a white suburban family's mansion to steal yet _another_ fucking car. At least Laverne wasn't there to make a mess of it. One look at the size of their TV set and Lavern's 'apache blood' would have gotten the better of her. For someone that Francis had known since high school, Laverne sure hadn't learned a lot. When Francis had heard Tyrone had shacked up with some doctor while she was in prison, she thought that maybe Laverne had changed, too. That she'd learn something from her mistakes.

And then, when she arrived back in Strawberry, there was Laverne, still playing like she was some kind of hood princess or something. Smuggling dope in her bra, jumping in cars with entertainers, still wearing gang colors like some kind of cheap ass cheerleader. Tyrone might have left Francis and cleaned himself up, but Laverne hadn't changed one bit.

She watched around the corner of the kitchen once she was down stairs, an older guy, tanned and lean with a woman about her age, wrapped in eachothers arms, swaying in some weird motion with a tennis racket, so wrapped up in it that they didn't even notice her. This kid she was robbing - was this her parents?

"_Excellent_ thrust, Mr De Santa!" The woman laughed, her hips driving into hers. "Just make sure to get a real_ drive_ into it." Not Mom and Dad, then. She snuck past and behind another wall, gently pushing open the garage door and shaking her head. Rich people. _Fuck._ There was a stereotype about the kind of rich, old white folk who lived up in Rockford, and this family was _not_ helping it.

She climbed in the car. Unlocked, keys still in the ignition. Holy _shit,_ she'd stolen from some fools before, but this was a whole new level. She wouldn't even have to hotwire it. Simeon was going to be pleased with _that_. She shook her head quickly as she started up the car, realizing she was thinking about the 'employee of the month' scam again. Shit no. She wasn't falling for that.

Pulling out of the garage, she carefully drove out of the front yard, past the still unconscious body of the gardner she'd had to knock out on the way in, and cruised effortlessly out of the gate. Hah! Too fucking easy. Reaching into her pocket and swiping her phone open, she opened Simone's contact listing, putting the phone to her ear.

"Hey, Simone," she began, cautiously looking around. "I got the ride, homie, I'm coming back."

The woman on the other end snorted, her voice husky from god knows how many thousands of cigarettes she'd smoked in her many years. "If you actually bring the repossession back to me this time," she spat through her heavy accent, "I can have it back on the street before the day is done!" With a click, the line died, Francis rolling her eyes. Maybe Laverne was right to convince her to keep the bike they'd repo'd the day before, maybe Simone needed a taste of her own goddamn medicine.

_Click._

"That's a nine millimetre semi-automatic pushed against your skull."

Francis' body tensed, _something_ pressing against the back of her head, through her hair. Something cold, hard. The voice of whoever had hidden in the back of that car? That feminine, husky, worn voice? They weren't lying.

"Don't look around," the voice ordered, "you just keep driving where you're going."

"Hey, come on, girl," Francis began, her voice calm, continuing towards the dealership as instructed. "This was a repo job. Girl was behind on her fuckin' note."

"Unlikely," the woman said, "considering my daughter just got this car. And looking at the way you're going about this?" She asked. "My guess? You're working a credit fraud."

"A credit fraud?" Francine repeated. "Be serious, girl, I just work the fuckin' repos!"

"I appreciate a kid who follows orders without taking responsibility. Yeah, maybe one day we'll have a beer, and I'll explain how the world really works." She paused, her voice changing in tone, lowering, becoming more threatening. "Who gives you the slip?"

"A car dealer, dog, by the name of Simone Yetarian."

"So this businesswoman, she look legit to you?"

Francis exhaled. If she'd had a choice in the matter, she'd have run out of patience by now. "Look, girl, it's just between her and your fucking daughter."

"Don't worry," the mysterious woman in the back seat assured her. Me and Ms Yetarian, we'll work this out."

There was a silence for the next few minutes, the object on the back of Francis' head not moving away. While she wasn't exactly afraid of firearms, there's still always something about having one pressed to your head. It's different to having some motherfucker point on in your general direction, or aiming at a limb. No matter who it is, having a gun put to your head sends a chill through you. A feeling of dread, like the coldness of the steel is connecting into your very bones.

"Hey, it's just up here," Francis finally announced, the car dealership in her sights. "Look."

"Okay, stop the car. Pull up," the woman ordered. Despite the fact she was pointing a gun to the back of Francis' head, she didn't seem at that angry with _Francis._ Maybe Simone was going to get a taste of her own medicine that was _much_ more bitter than losing a bike. Francis pulled the car over on the curb opposite the dealership.

"That the place?" The voice asked.

"Yeah, that's the place," Francis sat stationary, her hands in the air and off the wheel. The woman behind her pushed the gun harder into her, Francis giving a cautionary "woah."

"Drive into it." She ordered. "Right through the fuckin' window. And fast." She paused, letting this sink in, her voice changing again to become threatening, serious. "Or I'll put two rounds in the back of your skull and do it myself." Francis knew what that tone was. That was the tone of someone making a promise, not just a threat.

"Bitch, you can't be for real," Francis said, trying her best to not give in to her curiosity and turn to face her captor.

"I look like a fuckin' bitch to you?" She snapped, her voice quiet.

"Man," Francis lowered one hand back down onto the wheel, another onto the gear stick, putting it in drive. "Fuck my life, man. Fuck it."


	3. Sexual Problems

This felt a little bit dirty.

Michelle was probably much too old to be at this club, but she wasn't your typical 40-something. Oh no. She was on the floor, bottle of champagne in her hand, dancing with at _least _two guys who were… swimmers? Gymnasts? Some kind of sports team that was in town. Fucked if she knew. She'd had a lot to drink and took two of… whatever it was she'd found in Jenny's makeup drawer. Valium? Maybe. Felt like it. Felt good. Her head was spinning.

Whatever. This was better than what her Saturday night would be otherwise. Alone, on her couch, watching movies and drinking. Maybe some awkward sex with Adam if he was home. She couldn't _stand_ the sex with him anymore. Once upon a time, she couldn't keep her hands off him, but now? Now she'd look at him while he did whatever the fuck he was doing on top of her, and all she could see was a man that she was imagining she was a 23-year-old tennis coach. Or teacher's aid, waitress, dog-walker, maid… anyone but her.

If she was going to be honest with herself, this nightclub she'd wandered into didn't feel like nightclubs used to, either. Sure, she was drunk, the life of the party as per usual, and judging by the way this guy has holding onto her waist she was probably going to get some from _someone_ who wanted _her_ tonight. She mused a little bit exactly where she'd do it. Maybe she'd grab a hotel room - no, that felt seedy and cheap, even for her. There was, of course, her car. She'd had a few, but she'd more than mastered the art of driving under the influence by now. She could drive him somewhere quiet. Hell, maybe even somewhere _not_ quiet. She liked when there was a risk of getting caught, the rush, the adrenaline. Made her _feel_ something.

She opened her eyes, scoping out the dance floor through the haze of alcohol and relaxants in her system, her eyes settling on a young woman doing shots. Young. Petite. Happy. _Ginger._ She felt that feeling spark in her again - not hatred, not anger, just disdain - and grabbed the mystery athlete by the wrist, leading him away from the dance floor, into the darkened bathrooms, ignoring whatever drunk women were in there and practically pushing him into a stall. She slammed the door shut behind them, locking it and thanking whatever higher power watched over her for the dim lighting. She might have been dressing like a 20 year old, and her weight might have made she looked a little younger than she actually was, but there were visual aspects of her age that she could never hide from in a well-lit room. Judging by the way he basically attacked her with his hands and mouth, though, he either hadn't noticed or was a MILF hunter. God bless the porn industry, she thought.

His hand cupped the back of her head and they proceeded to smear her lipstick all over each other's faces, her leg lifting up, bracing the side of him as he ground against her, their clothes frustratingly between them. "Come on," she whispered, her voice frantic, her heart racing, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. One of his hands moved south, past hers, reaching for the button and zip as he bit and sucked along her neck, her moans of excitement now becoming more than enough to be heard over the reverb of the music from the club. His fingers ran up her thigh, moving ever closer to where she needed him, and then…

"_Remember, you can only make the improvements that you __**choose**__ to make."_

Her eyes snapped open, her therapist's words rattling through her brain. Again. _Shit._ Every fucking time she went, it was _'what about your sexual problems?_ Fuck! _Fuck._

She pushed him off her gently, her eyes shut, holding him at arm's length. Shaking her head, she avoided looking him in the arm. "Put it away and get out of here," she exhaled.

He fidgeted with his jeans. "But-"

"Get. Out." Her request was an order, her arms crossed. She kept her gaze downward until the bewildered man left. She reached out and closed the stall door again, locking it once more and re-adjusting her clothes. "It's not right," she told herself under her breath. "Not like this."

She closed her eyes and stood still, giving a deep inhale, and then an exhale, trying to find her centre or whatever fucking bullshit her therapist told her to do in moments of crises. It didn't work.

Instead, she threw her arm out, punching the wall of the stall and letting out a short, frustrated "fuck!"

Michelle wasn't your regular 40-something-year-old at all. She was much more pathetic than that.


	4. Looking Good

"Well look who decided to show her fuckin' face after costin' me my motherfuckin' _job!"_

Francis rolled her eyes. Just her luck. She hadn't even got through the fucking _door_ before Laverne managed to confront her, her dog on its chain, sniffing the fence of the house eagerly. "You fuckin' kidding me?" She asked, tilting her head to the left, her eyes squinted in disbelief. "Maybe you'd still fuckin' _have _your job if your punk ass hadn't stolen the fuckin' product."

"Girl, settle the fuck down," Laverne took her turn to roll her eyes, a hand on her hip, "I was just _borrowing _it. You're the one who fuckin' rolled a car through Simone's window, nigga. Some fuckin' employee off the month."

"Whatever, girl."

She shook her head turning to go inside, when Laverne cleared her throat. Francis glanced back, her friend donning a wide smile, hunched over a little bit, a glint of something in her eyes. Francis knew that look. "Anyway," Laverne began, shuffling towards the house in a dancing motion, "I got _news_, girl! Guess who just got outta' the joint?"

Francis didn't like this at all, partly because Laverne getting excited about someone coming home from prison was _never_ a good thing but _mostly_ because that could be _anyone._ "I 'unno." She shrugged.

"Stretch!" Laverne threw her head back, clapping her hands together before shuffling from side to side in a victory dance. "Nigga sent me a text when I got home, he's back in the hood tomorrow! Ha!" The fact Laverne was _so_ thrilled about this was making Francis _very_ uncomfortable - because she knew exactly what that meant.

"Hold on," Francis cut in, holding her arm out, gesturing for her friend to stop. "You fuckin' tellin' me ya'll been fuckin' round with Stretch now?"

Raising her eyebrows again, Laverne shot a look of offence to her friend, her arms crossed, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "I'm sorry, _Francine,_" she announced, her voice verbosely lengthening the name. "I forgot ya'll was my fuckin' mama. What the fuck do you care?"

Laverne was wrong, at least a little, anyway. Francis didn't usually care who she was fucking because given how much Laverne got around, Francis decided she didn't need that stress. Laverne was a pretty girl, strong cheekbones, light brown eyes, thin - in fact, given her height, some might even go as far as to call her lanky. Well, they did, in high school. Lanky Laverne - that's what the boys would call her before she started wearing shorts and they realised her legs went on for years and they started paying attention to her. And goddamn if Laverne didn't love that attention.

While Francis was busy always trying to make things work with Tyrone, Laverne was fucking with entertainers and doing whatever she could to make a name for herself in the hood. It wasn't always a good name, but she eventually got her way. By then, of course, Laverne had herself a bit of an 'easy' reputation as well, but you only had to meet her once to realise she wasn't the kind of woman you'd say that to. As loyal as she was when she was throwing up her gang signs and running dope for whatever boyfriend it was this week, she was just as unpredictable.

"Uh huh," Francis gave a short nod, looking her friend up and down and glancing at the Rottweiler that sat beside her. "Girl, I think that weave has gone to your fuckin' head. I can't believe you're fuckin' Stretch. You're a goddamn fool, fuckin' with OGs now." Francis scoffed.

"Oh _please,_" Laverne laughed. "Bitch, ya'll can keep actin' high and mighty and look down on me and my fuckin' man 'cause we're fuckin' hustlers," she began, Francis raising an eyebrow, unsure when Laverne became classified as a hustler. "But even with all your fuckin' talking bout going legit and shit, ya'll still from the same fuckin' hood as me, still tryna' get paper _just like me_. I know you're jealous, bitch, but maybe if ya'll got yourself some fuckin' new clothes and did somethin' with your ratchety-ass hair, Tyrone'd start paying attention to your sad ass again instead of his fuckin' white girl, _nig-gah~"_ she sang, reaching a hand out and shaking it from side to side at Francine.

Francis could merely shake her head at her friend, turning around and trying not to laugh out loud. "Yeah, okay, whatever, girl." She pushed through the door, and pretended to not notice her Aunt, who was doing her vagina push ups or whatever the fuck she was advocating this month. If she stopped to try and talk to her, it would go one of two ways: either she'd start a fight, or she'd try and get Francis to join in. There was little in life that Francis could find more frightening than the latter of the two.

On entering her room, Francis paused in front of her mirror. Maybe Laverne, through all her shouting and impulsivity, had been right. Usually Laverne _was_ a little bit right at the core of things, even if everything else she surrounded the main message with was horrible naive and misguided. Francis hadn't done a goddamn thing about her appearance since her prison stint. Unlike Laverne, Francis was chunky - not fat, but rounded out. Her shoulders were broad, her arms strong and toned, her chest more athletic than 'bouncy' and soft. In fact, Francis' most 'feminine' asset was her behind, which really wasn't doing much to break any of the stereotypes about black woman. _"Girl, I would strangle a nigga to death for an ass like that,"_ Laverne would tell her. Frequently. To the point where it actually made her a little bit angry.

Laverne was definitely right about her hair, now that Francis was actually looking at it. Usually she just kept it tied back and out of the way, but that didn't really do her facial features any favors. And her wardrobe was… lacking. A lot of her clothes were leftovers of what she owned before she was arrested, which in itself was a joke.

Reaching for her wallet, Francis made the determined stride out of her house again and made a beeline for her car. If she couldn't go legitimate, she could at least _look_ good.


	5. Taylor

_Hey everyone! I'm so glad this story has been so well received. You're all amazing, haha. You've probably noticed there's a few characters that I haven't genderflipped, like Stretch and Ron, and that's just because I think they happen to work better as male characters (and I think if there was a male/female dynamic between them and the protagonists it could be interesting as well.) Just pointing that out incase you thought I'd made some mistakes or something._

_Anyway, thanks for the reviews, enjoy!_

* * *

"Yeah, cowboy." Taylor groaned. "Like _that._"

Bent over her kitchenette, Taylor gave a whimper as Ashton pushed himself into her, the tweaker's hands clasped around her waist as he slammed her into the surface of the bench. His hands were shaking. Taylor knew he needed a fix, which was realistically the reason he was there, but she didn't realize it was this bad. Thank god for tweakers, keeping her company in her loneliest hours.

If she were to be completely honest, Ashton was as far from her 'type' as humanly possible without being a dog or a child. He was nothing but a junkee, totally spineless, no resolve, no backbone, a total slave to Lady Crystal. But, as she always said, 'in my hole, that's the goal.' Despite her complete lack of attraction to him, she had to fuck _someone,_ even if it was a meth-addicted biker. Sure, Ashton wasn't the best lay, and every now and then she found herself glancing at the television, wondering what was on - but a dicking was a dicking. "Yeah," she instructed, biting her lip and turning her head slightly to instruct him. He was messy, he _needed_ her to tell him what was what. "Don't stop." She turned her hips a little and gave a gasp as he hit her in just the right spot. "Ah!" She gasped, slamming her palm on the surface on the kitchenette. "Oh _fuck!_ Don't stop! Don't stop!" Maybe he wouldn't be as bad as she thought. She might even come through on letting him smoke up after this.

"_And then she said: 'you forget a thousand things every day, make sure this is one of them,' was pretty scary!"_

"Stop," Taylor ordered throwing her arm back and grabbing Ashton by his shirt, the thrusts stopping, her eyes widening as she turned her full attention to the TV. No fucking way. No _fucking_ way. She stared at the new report, silent, her mouth agape. Robbery. Jewellry store. Way the thing was carried out? Exactly like something Michelle would have pulled… but it couldn't be, because Michelle was dead. Her and her fucking movie quotes. Dead. Six feet. _Dead._

She shoved Ashton off her, reaching down to pull her jeans back up from the floor. Ashton stumbled a bit, bewildered, confused, pulling himself back into his pants. "You wanna get lit now, sugar?" He asked as she buttoned her jeans up and grabbed her beer from the counter. She didn't respond, instead heading for the front door, her mind clearly on something else. "T-Taylor?" He stammered, following her, eyes wide with fear that he might not score his freebies. "Baby? We gonna smoke up now?" She ignored him. No lay was more important than this. She'd get laid again. She wasn't the most attractive woman, but she had a pair of tits, which was, luckily for her, enough for most. She was pretty skinny, too, a little muscle where it mattered considering her 'extra curricular activities,' which surely didn't hurt. Her tattoos, some acquired in prison, others acquired under the influence of (probably) meth, removed her from the 'feminine' category, but she was a bit old for that now, anyway. She didn't care about pandering to the male gaze. If she did, she'd wear clean clothes, and cut her wild, brown hair which seemed to go in just about every direction - she'd probably wash it, too. But there were more important things to worry about than her appearance, she knew that. Like the business, or her friends who had apparently risen from the fucking grave. The patriarchy could fucking wait.

Taylor burst through the door, her blood cold, her stomach in a tense knot. How the fuck was that even possible? How the fuck could someone so fucking similar to Michelle exist? No. That couldn't have been a copycat. No one could quote bullshit movies like Michelle, and no one was enough of a loser to quote them during robberies. How does that happen? Why was this happening? Why the _fuck_ were all these losers suddenly at her trailer and screaming? Didn't they fucking realise what the fuck was going on?

"You been with my man again?" Jessie shouted, shaking with rage, her leathers smelling of sweat and dried up blood under the desert sun. Taylor really didn't have time for Jessie's bullshit, even if she was leading The Lost right now - but she was getting in Taylor's face and that wasn't acceptable. "I'm talking to you, motherfucker!"

"Are you?" She asked, finally stopping, turning to face him. She could see that everyone there, the whole fucked-up-family unit, Ron and Wendy, Jessie and Ashton, who had rushed outside to try and stop his woman from starting something neither of them wanted to go through with. "What are you saying?" Taylor spoke casually, curious to if Jessie was just angry or actually had a deathwish.

"Fucking my man, Taylor," Jessie explained. "It's wrong."

Taylor stepped towards her, her arms outspread to her acolyte. "Oh, well, I gotta fuck someone," she began. "You want me to fuck you instead? Is _that_ the problem here?" She asked. She closed the distance, speaking low. "Well, take 'em off, sweetheart. Let's… let's fuck."

"You think this is funny?" She snapped.

"Get them off!" She roared.

"I told her to leave it, Taylor," Ron gasped, catching up to the two, the old man out of breath, limping on his knee brace, Wendy and Ashton not far behind. "I told her, leave it! Leave it!"

"Shut up, Ron," Taylor warned, pointing to Ron before turning back to circle Jessie. "I'm about to fuck me a meth head, ain't I, sweetheart?" She asked. "Get my beaver eaten by her toothless gums."

"Fuck you, Taylor," she spat, avoiding eye contact now, staring at her books as Taylor continued to circle her. "I still love him."

Taylor stopped, putting her hand on Jessie's shoulder. "Alright, sweetheart, _shh,_ I know," she assured her. "Hey c'mon, shh, hey."

"I don't mean nothing by it," Jessie began, shaking her head as Taylor re-assured her. "I know I messed up."

"It's okay, it's okay," Taylor let out another 'shh' and started to take Jessie into an embrace. "Gimme a hug, yeah…" For a moment, it looked as though everything would work out, as if Taylor was in a rare state of calm.

Without warning, she let out a grunt and pulled back, reaching her arm out to grab Jessie by the throat and push her backwards. Once Jessie hit the ground, Taylor lunged forward, hurling her beer bottle into Jessie's head, smashing it, beer, glass and blood flying in all directions. Not content with that, she jumped forward, stomping her boot into Jessie's head. "Fucking shit!" She screamed, stomping away, Ashton giving a horrified cry behind her - but no one would dare to stop her. Taylor knew that. "Cunt! Cunt! Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!" She shouted with every stomp, finishing with one powerful, angry drop of her foot.

She paced away from Jessie's now limp and probably lifeless body, turning back to scream. "Who the _fuck_ do you think you're speaking to?!" She asked. "Who?! Who?! I'm talking to you, huh?! You _fuck!"_

"Jessie!" A mortified Ashton whimpered from behind them, as if trying to rouse her back to life.

"Next time, don't get in my _fucking face!_" Taylor continued, paying no mind to the others. "I just saw a fucking ghost, and I've got to hear your crap?!" She stepped away, but changed her mind, returning. "Get up!" She ordered. "Get _up!_" Jessie, being dead, didn't respond, infuriating Taylor. "Fuck you, then!" With that, Taylor stormed away, Wendy and Ron following, leaving Ashton to weep over his girlfriend's body.

Taylor's hands were balled up into fists, rage coursing through her. Fucking _excellent._ Now she had a ghost on her back _and_ she had to deal with the fucking Lost. _Wonderful._ "That dopey trophy girlfriend forced my fuckin' hand," she began heading for her truck, the other two eagerly following. "We gotta find the rest of the Lost."

Taylor, of course, could have covered this up. Put down Ashton so he wouldn't talk. She could have hid it. But she didn't give a fuck about the Lost right now. On any other day, maybe. But every fuck she had to give was reserved for what she saw on that TV, and getting the Lost out of the way was _purely_ so she could focus on the apparent resurrection of her best friend instead.

If Michelle Townley was still alive, Taylor Phillips was going to be fucking _pissed._


End file.
